


Maitresse

by lazarov



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Consent Issues, F/M, Heartbreak, Minimalistic, Pining, Teacher-Student Relationship, University, Unrequited Lust, affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The meeting starts in her office to discuss his abysmal coursework and ends in his flat, his head between her thighs and her nails pressed hard into his shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maitresse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humbug/gifts).



> So, there's other stuff I SHOULD ACTUALLY be writing, but this is the funny little minimalistic thing I actually ended up writing.

 

 

He's always had a thing for older women, and he finds her particularly beautiful.  Beautiful and intimidating.

When she bends over to review her notes, lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes and red hair spilling over her shoulders, he can see the curve of her breasts between the buttons of her shirt.  

"Right, so, continuing from where we left off last week with The Symposium…"  her voice is hoarse and posh and when she turns around to write something on the blackboard Zayn can see, through the thin fabric of her skirt, the way her hips swell softly over the waistband of her underwear.   

He can't help but wonder whether or not those hips have borne children and, when class ends, he has to hold his book bag in front of himself as he leaves to hide his erection.

 

 

 

 

…

 

Zayn isn't sure if he initiated or if she did.  Maybe they both did, concurrent or consecutive -- it doesn't matter.

The meeting starts in her office to discuss his abysmal coursework and ends in his flat, his head between her thighs and her nails pressed hard into his shoulders.

 

 

 

 

…

 

Midterms are handed back and Zayn decides that the _72%_ is a good sign.  If his grades don't improve, it's not a transaction.  

He doesn't want it to be a transaction, anyway.

He knows there's something there, something more than that, between them.  

 

 

 

 

…

 

He daydreams a lot in class, but Zayn doesn't think she notices.  

Cheek resting in his hand, he thinks about running his fingers through the curls between her legs (he wonders if she noticed the way he dragged his thumb across the grey hairs sprinkled in among the red, entranced).  

He daydreams about the way her eyes narrowed, the way he felt her breath hitch when she watched him lick her taste from his fingers.

 

 

 

 

…

 

He's close, so fucking close, when he notices that the spit-moistened hand sliding along his cock is wearing a wedding band.  He's too close to care, so he closes his eyes and lets himself come over her fingers.  

Afterwards, when they're panting on top of Zayn's bedsheets, her phone rings.

"Hey, baby - no, I'm still at work, I have grading -"

Zayn mumbles, "Gonna get water," then pads into the kitchen.  

He runs the tap full blast to drown out her voice and grips the ice-cold counter til his fingers ache.

A minute or so passes before she calls out to him.

"Come back to bed, love."

 

 

 

…

 

Zayn hesitates a moment before he raises his hand to answer her question (he usually tries to avoid answering them, usually isn't paying attention anyway, but everyone has nearly dozed off and, fuck it, he wants to _impress_ her).

"Yes," she gestures at him.  Her face is blank.

"Sisyphus," Zayn answers.  He corner of his mouth curves into a smirk.  It's an invitation to play.

She holds his gaze for a moment, neutral.  Then, ever so slightly: she shakes her head.

"Yes.  Thank you."  She turns back to the blackboard.

When class ends, Zayn is the first out the door. 

 

 

 

…

 

He tells himself he doesn't mind that she begins to insist on hotel rooms.

He tells himself he doesn't mind that she begins to insist on being fucked from behind.

When he tries to tell her, between thrusts, how beautiful she looks, she hushes him, and Zayn wonders what her husband's accent sounds like.  

 _Probably posh, too_ , Zayn thinks. 

Not like his.

She moans under him ( _fuckmeharderpleaseharder_ ) and he lets himself forget about it.

  

 

 

...

 

"You were in my dream last night," Zayn says.  His toes are cold under the itchy hotel sheets and he can feel the edge of the wet spot under his thigh.

She's skimming through her phone and it takes a moment for her to realize he's speaking to her.    

"Oh?"  She doesn't look up. 

"You were in a boat, in the middle of the ocean.  A wooden boat.  And you were paddling past me."

"Where were you?"  She glances at him, eyebrow arched.

"I was in the water."

She nods and looks back down, distracted by a knot in her hair.  Her brow furrows as she sets to untangling it.

"Swimming?"

"Yeah."

She reaches over the side of the bed and shuffles around in her purse, retrieving a cigarette.  She lights it, doesn't offer him one. 

"I asked you for help," Zayn says, his voice small.  "I was drowning."

She nods and takes a pull on her Silk Cut. 

"And then what happened?" She asks.

"You told me not to speak to you in public."

 

 

 

...

 

It happens sporadically across the winter, but he doesn't initiate anymore.  He just waits for her to text him, which she inevitably does.

 _lonely tonight let's meet up_.  

The last time they meet up, it's dark out and snowing and they fuck in her Jetta in a Tesco parking lot with the radio on.

When it's over, she rolls off his lap and into the driver's seat.  She lifts her hips so she can pull her skirt back down and then turns on the air conditioning and checks her email.  

Zayn stares at her, panting.  His jeans are around his knees and his shirt is rucked up and he hasn't come yet.  He opens his mouth to say… something, he isn't sure what.  His jaw hangs open for a moment before he closes it again, slips the condom off and flicks it into her cup-holder. 

Before she can open her mouth to protest, he's already pulled his trousers back up and slammed the door.

  

 

 

…

 

For the last month of classes he sits in the back of the lecture hall.  He feels a stab of satisfaction when he watches her squint under the bright lights, looking for him. 

She texts him before class sometimes.  

_come sit at the front today.  i miss your face._

then

_i'm wearing that thong you like.  sit closer and i'll make sure you see it._

then

_did you drop my class?_

but Zayn no longer answers.

 

 

 

…

 

Zayn goes home for winter holidays.  Hugs his dad, kisses his mum, shakes the guilt from his head.  Around the dinner table, his sisters tease him for not bringing home a girlfriend and he just shrugs, laughs along around a mouthful of his mum's Sunday roast.

He's splayed out on the living room couch when his phone dings, new e-mail.  His final exam grade has been posted.

Breath held, he grabs his laptop and logs in.

(He can't quite explain why, but something compels him to glance over his shoulder before he clicks  _View My Grades_.)

_97%._

Zayn lets go of his held breath, pushes his computer off his lap and curls into a ball.  

A noise, partway between a cough and a gag, jumps out of his throat before he can swallow it back down and he buries his face in a pillow so that his mum doesn't hear his sobs from the kitchen.


End file.
